


All You Need

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Necessities [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 09, BDSM, Bondage, Bottom Dean, Castiel in the Bunker, Comeplay, Dean in Panties, Dom Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Panty Kink, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Punishment, Rope Bondage, Sub Dean, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean is always captivating in his submission, but when he loses himself so completely, Cas' breath catches, his heart flutters.  Divine is the only word that comes to his mind.</p><p>"He will always be in awe of the simple blasphemy that is worshipping Dean Winchester."</p><p>Follows <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4180185">Under Honor; Honor-Bound; Until the Stars</a>, but can easily be read as a stand-alone fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All You Need

**Author's Note:**

> [betty days](http://bettydays.tumblr.com/) prompted me:
> 
> "Castiel rebuilt Dean. He knows everything about him, from his panty kink to his need to submit. Dean gets back to the bunker from a hunt, frustrated and angry, because the victim died and the monster is still out there. It's a rare day that Dean Winchester gives up a hunt, but this time, he has no choice. Castiel knows Dean needs to be told how good he is, knows he just needs tied up and lavished with love and attention, when all he wants is to be punished. So Castiel gives Dean what he needs."
> 
> This story occurs several months after the events of [Negotiating the Spot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3890449).
> 
> Please do not repost/copy/duplicate this work to other sites. That's called theft.

Castiel finds Dean in his room, sitting on the bed.   _Their room; their bed_ , he immediately corrects himself in his head.  It's been their room since whenever this between them started.  Dean had come to him one sleepless night (and there have been so many since Castiel fell and began to call the bunker his home), begging him for help, telling him he needed him, needed penitence, needed punishment, needed something, _anything_.

"Why?" he'd asked as he grabbed Dean by the lapels of his coat and pushed him against the wall.

"Please," Dean had said, pupils dilating.  "I need to feel, Cas.  I need to fight.  I need to hurt.  There's no fucking hunts and I need my brain to shut off for a while.  Please, Cas."

Dean needed this, whatever this is.  Castiel simply needed Dean, however he was offered.

It's been six months now.  Sparring had progressed rather smoothly into rough sex, and then almost as naturally into a Dom/sub relationship.  The game has changed, evolved.  Now, there are rules.

Dean sits on the bed, home from the hunt, breaking them all.  His pants are pooled around his ankles; he hasn't even taken off his boots.  The pair of boxers he chose to wear today never made it past his knees, and Castiel can see the elastic stretching, marking the skin as Dean's legs splay open.  Dean holds his cock in his hand, soft.  He stares at it like it's betrayed him.

Castiel stands in the open door, his right arm over his head, leaning into the crook of his elbow.  His free hand picks at the hem of his oversized tee, one of the many agitated fidgets he’s picked up since having humanity forcibly thrust upon him.  It doesn’t make sense.  He could have given Dean a lengthy list of law to follow; it was well within the rights Dean had given over to him, after all.  But no, Castiel was merciful, and Dean so wonderfully obedient (and Lord, if he’d only known how to control him during the Apocalypse), so three had seemed enough.  He never _really_ had to punish him, not for any other reason than they both were interested in Dean getting spanked.  Now, as Castiel stares holes through Dean’s back, stubbornly ignoring the hunch to his shoulders and the nervous tapping of his foot, all Castiel can think of are how many horribly creative ways he can possibly punish Dean.

"Tell me what you've done, boy," Castiel demands from the doorway.  “You know I’m here, and you have yet to say a word.”

Dean grits his teeth, clenches his jaw, and turns his head away.

It only takes three strides to reach Dean, to twine his fingers in his hair, to force his head up in anger.  He's broken the rules, he's—

He's—

The fight leaves Cas as he stares in his lover's green eyes, full of false defiance, yes, but fuller of hurt; fullest of sorrow.

His hunter is broken.  He needs fixing.  Whatever Dean thinks he needs, he doesn't, not now.

"Hurt me," he spits out.  "Punish me."

Cas weighs his options.  Finally, he releases his grip on Dean's hair, hand falling to caress his cheek with the backs of his fingers.  Dean flinches and jerks away from his touch.  Cas sighs and pulls his hand away, letting it fall to his side.

"Strip," he demands.  "Put on your panties.  Kneel on the bed."

"I disobeyed you, didn't I?  I deserve—"

"You deserve exactly what I decide to give you," replies Castiel, fingers now a vice on Dean's chin, pulling their eyes together again.  He breathes deeply; as much as he enjoys playing Castiel, feeling that rush of power as surely as he used to feel the grace in his veins, Dean needs Cas now.  Human.  Gentle.  "Strip.  Put on your panties. Kneel on the bed."

Dean averts his gaze and mumbles a disappointed, "Yes."

"Yes what?"

Cas can practically hear Dean's eyes mentally roll.  "Yes, sir," he snarks as he gets up and moves to the dresser.  Confident that Dean will do as he's told, Cas turns and heads to the kitchen.  He pulls his cell phone from a pocket of his flannel pajama pants and throws Sam a quick message.

 _"You would probably prefer to make yourself scarce,"_ he texts.  His phone chirps as he's pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and places it in the opposite pocket.

 _"Way ahead of you,"_ Sam responds.   _"Bad hunt.  Dean needs space.  Spending the next few days with Charlie.  Good luck."_

_"Thank you."_

Sure enough, Dean is kneeling in the center of the bed when Cas returns.  He's chosen a pair of light pink cotton panties; Cas can see the faint outline of his cock through the fabric.  They may not be satin or lace, but it doesn't matter; it's the thrill of simply wearing them that does it for Dean, no matter how they feel, which is why he's supposed to wear them when he's gone.  If Cas can't drive him slightly crazy in person, the confines of self-enforced fabric will have to do.

Every muscle in Dean's body is tense.  His palms rest on his thighs, open and upward.  His eyes are closed, but Cas knows he can hear the bottom drawer of the dresser opening, hear the soft rustle of nylon rope as Cas pulls it out, hear the slight clink of the shears as they hit the wooden side of the drawer when Cas removes them.

"Up," Cas urges, sitting his supplies on the bed and lightly tapping Dean's ass.  Dean shifts, raising himself on his knees, and moves his hands to lace behind his head.  Cas takes the shears and cuts a notch down each side of his panties.  "Your word to continue?"

"Lebanon."

"For warning?"

Dean swallows.  "Lawrence."

"And to stop?"

"Poughkeepsie."

Cas taps him again, and Dean sits back down on his heels.  Picking up the rope, Cas climbs on the bed in front of him.  "Open your eyes," he bids, and Dean does.  "Call out the steps," he says, indicating the rope.

"Yes, sir."  His voice is small, almost fragile now.  Cas removes a single length of rope and folds it in the middle.  "Bight."

"Good—ah, ah, no, Dean.  You know you have to watch me."  He knows how hard it is for Dean to keeps his eyes open in scene, but Cas is also aware of how grounding the labeling process is for him.  Dean thrives on steps, order, precision.  Cas pulls the loose ends of the rope through the bight.

"Lark's head, sir."  Cas pulls Dean's legs out so that his heels rest on either side of his ass.  He slips the bight over his thigh and calf.  "Wrap," he repeats for each length that passes around them.  Cas can feel him relaxing incrementally as Dean focuses on his hands and on the process.  He knows from soul-searching so long ago when he rebuilt Dean that positioning is important.  Cas understands to leave his wrists and ankles alone; he's been restrained spread-eagle too many times to enjoy it.  So he's careful, slow, afraid to spook, but Dean's breathing is even.  He's calming down as he loses himself to the rope's embrace.

Dean repeats, "feed," "pull," "tuck," like a prayer as Cas anchors the rope within itself.  "Square knot," he whispers as Cas ties it off.

"Word?" Cas asks him as he checks the tightness of the rope.

"Lebanon."

Cas moves to the other leg, and the song remains the same.  By the time he's finished, Dean's head has lolled onto his own shoulder as he watches Cas' hands move, enrapt.  "Arms behind you now.  Stretch them out.  Slightly apart," Cas asks, tapping the insides of each.  "Good, that's good.  Thank you."

"Yes, sir."  The folded third rope is held in Dean's line of sight.  "Bight."  Cas wraps it around his arms a few inches below his elbows, crosses them between his arms and wraps again, then secures it.  He repeats the process above Dean's elbows, Dean murmuring the steps all the way.  Satisfied that Dean is bound and going nowhere, Cas wraps his arms around his torso, leans his head on his shoulder, and binds him a fifth time with his embrace.

"Word?"

"Lebanon," Dean slurs a bit.  "Feels good, sir."

"Excellent."  Cas runs his hands over Dean's chest, his stomach, down the tops of his thighs.  As eager as Cas is to get started, he can’t help but pause his skin-mapping and crawl around to sit in front of Dean to see what he’s wrought.  His knots aren’t the best—they’re still new to this, and while Cas has plenty of time to practice tying while he’s confined to the bunker, he certainly isn’t ready to show his work—but Cas can’t help but feel a small pride at the quality of his wrap-work, the improvement of the frog-tie over the last time he’d tried it, the uniformity and symmetry of the rope.

And Dean…   _Dean._

Dean is stunning restrained, and Cas forgets how to breathe for a few seconds.  He is reduced to thinking in sentence fragments, like labelling the parts of a pinned butterfly.   _Framed muscle so.  Here shoulder.  Black stripes for camouflage (I, the hunter now).  Flight incapable (poised the same).  A proper pin._  Dean’s sight is still frozen to his thigh, and likely hasn’t even noticed Cas in front of him.  Nevertheless, Cas never removes his hand.

Cas knows his touch is as grounding as the rope.

When he’s finally satisfied, Cas returns to kneeling behind Dean.  A slight smile plays at his lips as Dean immediately relaxes back into his arms.  While he’d be quite content to sit here for an hour or more, just holding his beloved bound (as they have a few times before), that isn’t why they’re here today.  Pulling himself back into the scene, Cas invites Dean to speak in a warm, even voice.  "Tell me how you disobeyed me."

Dean takes a shaky breath.  "Didn't take off my clothes before I got on the bed.  Touched myself without your permission.  And I didn't..."  Dean hesitates.  How he can still be embarrassed, Cas will never be sure.  "...I didn't wear my panties."

"Would you like to explain why you're trying to provoke me today?"

"Lawrence," Dean chokes out.  Cas presses kisses up his neck and runs his fingers up and down his back.

"That's alright," he reassures.  "We don't have to talk about it.  Tell me when you're good again or if we need to stop."

After a few minutes of Cas' caresses, Dean says, "Lebanon."

"Okay.  Do you know why I'm not punishing you, Dean?"

He shakes his head.  "No, sir."

Cas runs a hand through Dean's hair, massaging his scalp as he licks slowly up his jaw.  

"Because you think you deserve it.  You think you're a bad person.  You broke the rules because you think you've done something wrong already."

"I am bad, sir," Dean says, shaking his head a little, struggling not to lean into the touch he craves.

"No, you aren't."  He nips at Dean's ear, then bites harder behind it.  A tiny moan escapes Dean's mouth, unbidden.  "You are good.  Even when things go wrong, you are good, Dean.  You forget—I've seen your soul, beloved, I've held it my hands.  Even in your darkest thoughts, your most painful memories, your most hurtful deeds, you were good.  Good then, and good now.  Always so, _so_ good, Dean."

"I'm sorry," Dean suddenly blurts out.  He nuzzles his nose against Cas' chin as best as he can.  "So sorry, sir."

Cas kisses his forehead, his deft fingers finding one of Dean's nipples, rubbing it, twisting it.  His other hand begins to lightly stroke his cock through his panties.  Dean groans, thrusting to meet the proffered palm as best he can.  He's been hard since Cas finished securing his legs; pre-cum already stains a damp spot, a darker shade of pink.

"You are forgiven," assures Cas, and Dean makes a noise between a whine and a sob. "You're so beautiful like this, Dean," Cas continues, switching hands once in a while to tease with the other fingers and give attention to the other nipple as Dean pants into the side of his neck.  "So gorgeous in your desperation.  You love this, don't you?  Do you love it when I love you, Dean?"

" _Yes._ "  Dean presses his chest into Cas' hand, twists in his bonds, trailing off into nonsensical chanting.

"Of course you do.  You want so badly to be taken care of.  You deserve to be taken care of.  You take care of me, and Sam, and so many other people, and when you finally let me do the same for you..."  Cas trails open-mouthed kisses and bites across Dean's shoulders, punctuating words left unsaid.  "You're so _good_ to me.  So _perfect_ for me."

He dips his fingers under the waistband of the panties, rubs his first two fingers around the head of Dean's cock, then lifts them to his own mouth, swirling his tongue around them with a smile.  "You even taste good.  Do you want to taste how good you are, Dean?"

Dean nods vigorously against Cas' shoulder.  "Please," he begs, completely wrecked, "please, sir, please, _please_."  Cas repeats the process, circling his fingers more slowly, holding Dean's hip with his free hand to still his slight bucking.  He offers his fingers, and Dean takes them into his mouth greedily, moaning, sucking, utterly lost to sensation.

Cas rubs his clothed crotch against Dean's back, aching himself.  Dean is always captivating in his submission, but when he loses himself so completely, Cas' breath catches, his heart flutters.  Divine is the only word that comes to his mind.

He will always be in awe of the simple blasphemy that is worshipping Dean Winchester.

Unable to wait any longer, Cas grabs hold of the cut edges of Dean's panties and rips the sides open.  He smiles as he is rewarded by a sharp inhale of breath.

"Do you want to come, Dean?"

Dean whines a response, and Cas can't help but chuckle.

"I'm not quite sure I caught that," he says, dragging the flat of a nail up the underside of Dean's cock.  "Would you mind repeating—"

"Fuck, _please_ , sir, wanna come, _need_ to come, _fuck_ , please!"

"Say you're good."

Dean groans but acquiesces.  "I'm good, good, sir, please, I'm good."

"Now say it correctly."

Very quietly, "I'm...  I'm a good boy."

"That's right, Dean," Cas coos, rolling Dean's balls in his hand.  "And whose good boy are you?"

"Yours, _fuck_ , I'm _yours_ , always your good boy, _please_..."

Cas holds his hand up to Dean's mouth and orders, "Get this nice and wet for me."  Dean laves his hand, sucking each digit hard into his mouth, licking and stroking the palm with his tongue until it's shiny with his spit.  "One more time, beloved.  Tell me who you are."

"Good boy, good, yours, _yours—_ "

Cas wraps his hand firmly around Dean's cock, strokes him quickly and roughly as he likes it.  Dean wails as he comes, coating Cas' fingers with his cum, shuddering and trembling as he collapses back against Cas, sated and sweaty and spent.  Cas pushes him forward slightly as he yanks down his pajama pants.  Within just as many strokes, he finds his own release, painting stripes of thick, white cum up and down Dean's back.

Breathing hard, he gropes around for the destroyed panties.  Cas uses them to clumsily clean up his hand and dick and Dean's back as he rides the high of his orgasm.  He pulls a hazy, humming, happy Dean to lean back against him and laughs at the sight.  Dean's beaming in the afterglow, wearing an unabashedly goofy grin.  Cas cleans his softening dick with the panties as well, and Dean twitches and babbles a little at the touch of the soft cloth to his oversensitized skin.

"Do you want to hold onto this for me while I untie you?"  Dean nods slowly, eyes closed, and opens his mouth.  Cas complies, balling up the cum-soaked pink cotton and placing it in Dean's mouth; he knows Dean loves the way it feels against his tongue, loves to taste them mixed together.  Dean moans, a little noise made quieter as it's partially lost to the fabric, and sucks on his ruined panties, perfectly content as Cas tips him over to begin untying him.

Although, if Cas is being honest with himself, there’s a very vocal inner monologue urging him to simply untie him, rub his arms and legs, re-tie him differently, and start the whole damn thing over again.  And again.  And once more for good measure.  Sam had said he would be gone for several days, hadn’t he?

The ropes loosen beneath his fingers, and he wonders if Dean would be interested in a hand signal as safeword, if he’d like to leave the panties in his mouth longer.  Beg into them as Cas denies him.  Scream into them as he turns his backside red.

 _Deep breath.  Breathe deep._  Another time, definitely.   _(Tomorrow, perhaps?  Perhaps.)_  He files the fantasy away for future reference.

He's been free a while, cleaned, rubbed, hydrated, and now cuddled with his face once again in Cas' neck before Dean says, "It was an aswang.  We lost its trail after she killed and moved on."

Cas holds him tighter, strokes his back.  "And you blame yourself for the loss of the victim?  For not protecting him?"

"No, I..."  Dean swallows.  "She was targeting the homeless.  I couldn't stop thinking that it could've been you, lying there in a pile of cardboard and blood and dirty clothes.  And it would've been my fault for turning you away, for not finding you again sooner."

Cas leans back and lifts Dean's chin to look him in the eyes.  "You did what you had to.  You are good."  And then, against his lips, he repeats, "I forgive you."

Dean nods, and they lie there trading lazy kisses for several minutes before he asks with a hopeful voice, "So does this mean I'm off the hook?"

"Oh, no," Cas says with a smile.  "I won't punish you today, but you are definitely still in trouble, Dean."  He tucks Dean's head under his chin and adds, "I really hope you weren't intending on orgasming again for a while."

Cas can feel Dean pout against his sternum.  "We're not going to play?"

"I never said that."

Dean laughs and snuggles closer.  "You know me too well, Cas.  You know I can't fucking stand it when you tell me no.  So damn hot when you pull out the control freak."

He pets Dean's hair, lying in their bed, in their room, his favorite human curled up nude against his clothed form.

He always finds Dean here.

**Author's Note:**

> The accompanying photoset for this fic can be found [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/112920010569/bettydays-all-you-need-by-shiphitsthefan-3k) and was created by [betty days](http://bettydays.tumblr.com/), who is an excellent human. If you liked this story, I would greatly appreciate your reblogging it.
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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